Nevermore
by FairiesInOurHearts
Summary: "/But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token/And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"/.../Merely this and nothing more./" [Jerza]


**A/N: After a whole month of not writing anything, I'm back! I was kind of left without any inspiration for a while, or even when I had inspiration I just didn't know _how_ to write, so I was stuck with a case of writer's block, you could say - the fact that the school has started doesn't help at all. So, I grew tired of that writer's block, and decided to try and power trough with a story, and that's how I wrote this. I wouldn't say it's one of my best works but, oh well. ;)**

 **The inspiration this time was drawn from pretty much the only poet I ever read (not including the stuff I had to read for school), Edgar Allan Poe. Yes, I like his poetry very much - the dark and tragic parts just have some special beauty in them. I know three of his poems for now, but, alas, none of those three poems are _The Raven_ , one of his most famous works and the inspiration for this fic.**

 **So, naturally, considering The Raven is no sunshine story, this fic is also a bit darker, death, loss and grieving are major themes, but I don't think there's any kind of trigger in here. If there is, please let me know, so I could put a warning. :)**

 **Anyway, I blabbered enough already, so I'm stopping now. I hope you like the story! :D**

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" _But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,_

 _And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"_

…

 _Merely this and nothing more._

E. A. Poe - The Raven

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The cold air of December night crept slowly through the cracks in the old wooden windows. The room was messy, quiet, and mostly dark – the only rays of light came from the moon and a small, weak lamp set on the desk. A young man was lying on that desk, snoring lightly. He had somehow managed to fall asleep in an uncomfortable chair, with a hard wood and scattered papers serving as his pillow, even though he couldn't close his eyes even for a moment while lying in his bed.

But its cold temperature drove away any dreams he could have.

Even when he'd fall asleep, though, he'd dream of nightmares; of her cold, still body, her eyes - empty, lifeless - and her hair, the hair he loved so much, so wild, so vibrant, red, red, scarlet red, crimson red, _bloody red_.

Jellal woke up with a startle – it was the same scene that had haunted his dreams for such a long time, he had forgotten when the nightmares started. His fingers ran through his hair, gripping it tightly as he inhaled a shaky breath. He looked around. The room was still the same, eerie, somber since her presence left it. He didn't bother with cleaning anymore, because no matter how much he would clean, the room would still be _dirty_ , stained by an invisible, but a disgusting mark. He's become unkempt, too. Why would there be any need for him to pretend that he was alright by taking care of himself? He _needed_ what he saw in the mirror right now – a mess, the true reflection of his shattered soul, reminding him he's not okay, and he will never again be.

They tried to help him. They kept saying that it hurt right now, but the wounds would heal with time, if only he'd let them heal. But he didn't _want to_. He refused to let those wounds heal – he wanted to remember her, always, even at the cost of being in constant pain, of living a sad and lonely life. He didn't want her memory to fade away and leave him – because it was all he had left of her. Some material things that meant nothing and the memory of her, shining brightly and laughing, always alive in his mind.

After his breathing evened out, and he returned to the semblance of normality (because he couldn't ever be _normal_ again, she's gone, his light is gone, his soul is gone, how could he be _normal_?), Jellal got up from the chair and headed towards the bathroom. He washed his face with cold water, trying to shock himself into reality, but he felt nothing, just the same old numbness that had become his everyday companion. With glazed over eyes he looked into the broken mirror and saw a pale, sickly face, thin and with bags under the eyes, unshaven beard and that damned, blood-red mark on his face that served as a grim reminder of her death every day. He averted his gaze, feeling sick just looking at it, and quickly exited the bathroom.

He sat on the bed, throwing himself on it violently, and continued to stare at a single dot on the opposite wall. Flashbacks of that tragic night returned to him like a storm, and he closed his eyes, willing the images away, but without success. If only he'd arrived sooner… If only he didn't leave her alone, if only he knew what horror awaited him the next time he would open those doors. Why wasn't it him in her place? Why did she, such a beautiful, kind, brave soul (the queen of the fairest of all beings) have to die and he, a mess, a disaster, an unworthy peasant, lived? There was no fairness in that, none at all, and what he wouldn't give to go back in time and die instead of her.

But no. He was alive – if this half-life he was leading could even be called so – and she was dead, buried in a coffin six feet underground, forever young and breathtaking. When he'd think of it that way, Jellal would feel some relief – small, almost insignificant, but a relief nonetheless. He'd imagine her, in a white dress representing her purity, smiling down at him with the smile he adored, and warm eyes, and arms open wide, and her scarlet tresses framing her strong yet delicate face, and she'd call for him, call his name, whisper the words he would never hear from her mouth again.

" _Jellal, Jellal,_ Jellal… _"_

He abruptly opened his eyes. That last whisper, it was so clear, it couldn't have been just his imagination. She was there somewhere, calling him, asking him to find her. With a nervous motion, he slowly got up.

" _Erza_?", he whispered, gently, as if saying her name more loudly would cause a disaster, destroy the peace, and his fragile, fragile hope. His whisper was full of longing, despair, and indestructible love his heart refused to let go of. But there was no answer, and Jellal's heart sank right back to the pits of hell it had been in moments before. The light of the lamp flickered and created a dance of shadows on the walls, making a dark, sinister atmosphere. The wind outside was getting stronger, and its howls entered the small room through those cracks in the old wooden windows. Jellal stood there, still, trapped between dreams and reality. He could see her, his goddess, walking towards him with the grace she always had, with light but determined steps, and confidence oozing out of her.

He could see her, walking closer and closer, and closer still until she reached him, and stood in front of him. He could see her raise her arms, her beautiful, pale and strong arms, and wrap them around his neck. He could feel the pressure, and her hands closing in on his neck, squeezing. He could see her smile, that breathtaking smile, the one that always brought him to his knees, the one that always made him give in, so why should now be any different?

Jellal closed his eyes, relaxed into her and let her do whatever she wanted. If she wanted to kill him then so be it – he would join her in the afterlife and they would be happy together, forever and ever, with nothing to stop them and stand in their way. They would get their happy ending.

But this Erza soon disappeared, and Jellal remembered it was all only a figment of his imagination - because Erza, the real Erza, would never do something so horrible as to kill. Even though her white dress is stained, covered in her own blood, her hands were, and forever remain, clean.

Walking over to the desk, Jellal sat once again on the uncomfortable chair he occupied some time ago. He picked up the book he left there, and opened at the marked page. His eyes skimmed over the black letters, disinterestedly reading, until he found a certain part. He read it, slowly and carefully, and repeated the words, whispering unto the somber room.

" _Of 'Never – nevermore'."_

He closed the book again, and sighed, but the sigh sounded more like a whimper. He ran his hands through his hair again, pulling as hard as he could, so he could feel the pain, and with the last amount of strength he could muster up, he turned off the lamp, trudged back to his bed, and laid still, staring at the ceiling above him as a single tear made its way down his cheek.

Behind the windows, a faint outline of a beautiful young woman disappeared into the night.

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P.S. It would mean a lot to me if you left a review! :)


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